


A sight she never wanted to see

by assortedwords



Category: Kagerou Project
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Suicide, murder mention, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assortedwords/pseuds/assortedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The room—Shintaro’s room, the room they worked on projects together, the place where Momo crashed in just as he was about to give in and show her his songs in progress, the place where he brought Tono out for her to stroke—is filled with red, ponds and ponds of watery blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, routes mapping out all of the things Shintaro hurt for—she remembers the time she joked about how his blood must be soda, from drinking so much—and it’s not, it’s not, but she never needed to know that she never needed to see proof that his blood looked like dark red and splashed all over his wooden floorboards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A sight she never wanted to see

**Author's Note:**

> So once I wrote a really quick ShinAya thing in a minute: "ayano takes her scarf and wraps it around shintaro's neck. "I'm sorry I died," she whispers. shintaro lies in a pool of his own blood, throat scratched raw. "I'm sorry I died," she says again, until it becomes a mantra of apologies. her scarf is damp with blood and tears." Then I took that idea and ran with it.

She can’t take in the scene before her.

The room— _Shintaro’s_ room, the room they worked on projects together, the place where Momo crashed in just as he was about to give in and show her his songs in progress, the place where he brought Tono out for her to stroke—is filled with red, ponds and ponds of watery blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, routes mapping out all of the things Shintaro hurt for— _she remembers_ the time she joked about how his blood must be soda, from drinking so much—and it’s not, it’s not, but she never needed to know that she never needed to see proof that his blood looked like dark red and splashed all over his wooden floorboards.

One of the trails collide quietly with the wheels of his chair, and amidst her tears her brain grasps “ _Shintaro would be really upset at his chair being dirtied_ ”, the only concrete thing in the entire room filled with Shintaro’s blood,  and if she weren’t frozen to her spot she would close her eyes, but even then she would smell the blood, it smells like the time Momo showed her her piggybank and she stuck her head over the top to see all the coins, and she can never think of that moment again without thinking of Shintaro’s blood.

Her eyes can’t stay in the same spot, they roam over the walls and the ceiling and his bed, hoping so bad this is a dream but knowing it’s _not_ but miracles happen, don’t they?  _Don’t they?_   Her eyes roam to his bed, the grey duvet a direct contrast to that awful blood and she’s grateful, in the back of her mind, because everything is giving her a headache and is too _much_ and she’s never wanted to feel this way, the only _too much_ she’s ever wanted was love and happiness, or maybe, if she was being honest, from a lusty Shintaro in the middle of the ni—

“Not enough?” a taunting voice says, and Ayano can _hear_ the smirk in it, and all she wants to do is to scream at him, because of course it’s _his_ fault, Shintaro had so much—he had Takane and Haruka and Momo and—he had so _much_ , he…he…

Her brain short-circuits, and she can think of nothing and everything all at once.

Kuroha laughs, a screeching sort of sound that leaves her covering her ears at the sickening satisfaction he gets from her suffering.

“Let me show you more pictures of loser boy here,” he says, and the scene before them changes before Ayano can do anything.

Shintaro’s body.

Oh god, his beautiful, beautiful body.

The soft, dark hair that flopped down onto his eyes, the bangs he always flicked out of his way irritably when he was doing homework. His fingers, raw and red, curling upwards, shadowing his palm like it was the bud of a flower, something precious, something that was coming into life.

“Ah, I feel you,” Kuroha mock-sighs, “something so dead shouldn’t look so alive, you know? It… _ruins_ the effect.” He gestures from Shintaro’s head to the tips of his red slippers—had he gotten that colour because of her?—and Ayano wants to slap his hands away, because he does not deserve Shintaro, and he never will, he should never even be graced with the presence of somebody who gave his best to her, someone so selfish and undeserving.

 _Then you’re just like him_ , a voice inside her head whispers, and she wants to cry because she’s so conflicted.

“Get away from him,” she hisses instead, anger flaring her vocal cords into coherence. “ _Get away from him_. _Don’t you dare even go_ near _him_.”

“But, you caused this,” he says, blinking innocently like he isn’t the one that perpetrated this.

Ayano turns to him, her eyes on fire. “Don’t you _dare_ blame this on me—”

“He died for you~” Kuroha sings, and the image of Shintaro’s body zooms into his throat.

His throat is lined with scratches, neat straight lines that rise up to his Adam’s apple and come back down again, tearing his skin—his beautiful, priceless, porcelain, smooth, _beautiful_ , _beautiful_ skin—apart until blood poured down from those—ugly, horrible, horrifying, terrifying, atrocious, _awful_ , _awful_ —those wounds, those ripped seams where he was _perfect_ , like spilled secrets that were _his_ , _his_ to keep, not to be stolen away by a _monster_.

“Why—“ she wants to scream, but her voice grows more fragile as the syllable is drawn out, cracking like the thinnest ice.

“I told you, it’s your fault!” Kuroha flicks his fingers, and the image turns into a video, Shintaro positioning a pair of scissors to his throat, lowering it until he reached the tip of his skin, stabbing at himself until blood dripped from the sides of his mouth, staining everything red, red, red, until he crumpled to the floor like nothing more than one of her precious paper cranes, motionless.

Kuroha snaps his fingers, and the video stops replaying, leaving only Shintaro’s still body on the floor, lying on a throne of blood, like the king he deserves to be, a _hero_ he always is.

She runs to him before she realizes it, at first crouching next to his body and finally sitting, not caring about the blood staining her skirt and splashing next to her legs, turning them red, red, red.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers almost reverently, looking down at him like she always does, like he is the sun and she is the moon that only reflects his greatness. “I’m sorry,” because he is the galaxy and she is only a star, “I’m sorry,” because even though he is a king and she is a servant he gives her what he has, his intelligence and brash honesty, even though he is socially awkward and won’t admit his feelings he tells her he doesn’t mind her company, goes with her to the amusement parks she loves, lets her pick the prize when he wins at the booths, and she’s _crying_ , she’s crying so much and they fall from her eyes down onto his cheek and she prays he feels the warmth and knows she’s here, because she’s so sorry and she’ll never leave him again, never again.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and she _knows_ they don’t mean anything anymore because she _left_ him, _abandoned_ him with his problems foolishly thinking she wasn’t needed, but she _was_ if that’s what drove him to this and who knows maybe she was his galaxy too—

She cradles his head onto her lap, runs her fingers down the marks of his throat because that’s what people in romance novels do to scars, they see them and they don’t care about them, they kiss them and count them and give them a thousand reasons to smile until the reasons for their scars are nothing compared to their smiles, but she _can’t_ do that because she’s not good enough, she sees those lines and she wants to throw up and she feels so selfish for it, she’s supposed to make him smile again, but she’s never been _able_ to make him smile, she hangs her head and sobs for all the things she can’t do because she’s useless, worthless, and she would give her heartbeat if it meant he’d have his back, his skin healed and stitched and perfect again.

She bends her head and cries onto his face like she is the rain and he is the earth.

Kuroha laughs in the background.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really do research for this one because I really didn't want to see pictures of blood and dead people and raw throats. But, Kuroha showed Ayano a just-dead Shintaro, which explains why there's still blood flowing and why there's still colour in him.
> 
> Also, for the title: "I'll show you a sight you've never seen before, Ayano," says Kuroha, because I'm a horrible person.


End file.
